When we first took to the streets in 2011, we weren’t just demanding a homeland for all—we were demanding liberation. Liberation from fear, from humiliation, from the crushing weight of authoritarianism that had governed every aspect of our lives under Hafez al-Assad and then his son Bashar. We believed that by confronting the monster, we would regain ourselves. For a brief, unforgettable moment, it felt possible. But now, more than a decade later, I look around and ask: What have we become?
A few days ago, a childhood friend posted something on Facebook that stopped me cold. In reaction to the recent clashes in Jaramana and Sahnaya—two majority-Druze suburbs of Damascus—he openly called on “Major General Mohammad al-Jassim” (the new title of Abu Amsha) to “do what needs to be done” to the Druze, just as he had to the Alawites. No euphemisms, no dog whistles—just raw sectarian vengeance. He wasn’t alone. This kind of rhetoric is now widespread among a growing class of “enforcers” of the new regime—what many of us have come to call the “shabbiha of the new order.”
They no longer even pretend to speak of unity or justice. Anyone who questions Sunni dominance in post-Assad Syria is labeled a traitor, a separatist, or worse. And yet these very people were, until recently, victims of Assad’s tyranny themselves.
When Victims Become Executioners
My friend’s story is not unique, but it is devastating. In the early days of the uprising, his son was identified as an active protester. The regime couldn’t catch him, so they took his father instead. He was detained overnight, tortured, and then released—but not before being stripped down to his underwear and forced to walk home nearly naked, bloodied and barefoot through the streets of Damascus. Everyone understood the message: humiliation is more effective than prison.
He had served in a military institution. He knew what it meant to be a Sunni under Assad. That experience, among others, has left him bitter, broken—and vengeful. But his transformation from victim to advocate of revenge is not just his personal tragedy. It is a microcosm of Syria’s descent into moral collapse.
We were supposed to be different.
The Collapse of Moral Clarity
I’m not writing this to defend him. I’m writing to understand him—and through him, perhaps understand how we lost our way. My own fight against the Assad regime was deeply personal. I believed we were fighting for dignity and justice. But if we have simply replaced one form of sectarian oppression with another, then we have failed—not only politically, but morally.
Many Sunnis endured horrific abuses under the old regime. These crimes must be acknowledged and addressed, but the solution cannot be collective punishment of those perceived as former oppressors. Otherwise, we simply replicate the violence that broke us in the first place.
Justice, not revenge, was the promise of the revolution. And justice is not divisible.
Instead, we now see old warlords and perpetrators of war crimes walking free—some even protected by the new authorities. The long-awaited Transitional Justice Law, passed earlier this year, focuses solely on the crimes of the former regime. It deliberately excludes violations by armed factions and their sponsors, including figures within the current government. Even Ahmad Al-Sharaa himself, former leader of Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham, stands beyond scrutiny.
A Revolution Betrayed
On December 19, 2024—just eleven days after Assad’s fall—a peaceful demonstration in Umayyad Square called for a secular, democratic Syria. It was the first and last such protest. Participants were denounced as remnants of the old regime. Social media erupted with slurs. Soon, intellectuals who once championed the revolution joined the chorus, labeling protesters as “counter-revolutionaries.”
The slander culminated on March 9, 2025, when a group of artists and activists gathered in Marjeh Square to condemn the massacre of Alawite civilians. They were assaulted—not just online, but physically—by supporters of the new regime. It didn’t matter that some of them were icons of the early revolution. Two months had passed. That was enough time for the new order to consolidate its power.
I suspect my childhood friend was there that day. And not as a bystander.
The Triumph of Hafez al-Assad
This, then, is how Hafez al-Assad won: not by surviving, but by ensuring that his logic of domination, fear, and tribal loyalty would outlive him. We tore down his statue, but his spirit remains. His greatest triumph is not in the lives he destroyed, but in the hatred he left behind—in the minds of both the oppressed and their successors.
If Assad had been Sunni, would the revolution have even happened? My friend, now turned enforcer, insists it would not have. I disagree. I was there. I marched. I watched others—Sunnis, Alawites, Druze, Kurds—take the same risks, sing the same chants. We weren’t perfect. But for a fleeting moment, we were free.
And in that moment, we believed we could remake ourselves.
Hope Lost, Not Dead
The revolution was our collective rebirth. It was our chance to become the people we had always hoped to be. But rebirth without memory is meaningless. Without justice, we are merely reshuffling the hierarchy of victimhood and violence.
We are now teetering on the edge of that old abyss again—not because Assad’s system survived, but because we have internalized it.
I had hoped this essay would conclude with a simple truth: that my friend was misled, that he was used. But it’s not that simple. The truth is uglier: we all bear responsibility. The state may manipulate pain, but only we can choose how to carry it.
That moment of moral clarity we glimpsed at the start of the revolution—that refusal to dehumanize even our enemies—was our only chance of redemption. And we lost it.
And so, Hafez al-Assad wins.
And we are all defeated.
This article was translated and edited by The Syrian Observer. The Syrian Observer has not verified the content of this story. Responsibility for the information and views set out in this article lies entirely with the author.
